The Hole was not a prison. That was another lie told by Mr. Stark.

When Mr. Stark talked about the Hole to him that day in his bedroom, Peter pictured something akin to Rikers or Alcatraz. Small cells, bars, bunkbeds and an unsanitary toilet that smelled foul. Typical prison.

He didn't imagine this. Not this at all.

The Hole was hell.

Peter woke and found himself strapped onto a stretcher. He wasn't laying down, but upright, facing a blank wall. His arms were bound in a straitjacket, tight enough to keep him immobile. And he wore a collar around his neck. It didn't do anything to him (not yet, anyway), but it was a heavy reminder.

None of that was the worst part. What truly made it hell was the detention itself. There was something horribly wrong about it. His legs, chest, arms and—his whole body felt inverted. It wasn't painful, but it was distressing. Enough to make him squirm in discomfort.

The room holding him leeched of color, of sound, of smell, of touch… it was like he faded into a hollow corpse, enclosed in an indefinite tomb. His only view was a blank wall, it appeared to him like mirrors in a funhouse, distorting the distance at every angle he looked. It was weird and dizzy. Every fluttered of his eyes disoriented him, sending his head swimming and eyes spinning. The room was like an inhuman monster. Twisted and fearful and wrong! So wrong and it suffocated him.

The air was thick and dark. Every breath was like having cold fingers shoved down his throat and grasped onto his soul to yank it out. That fear expanded and Peter closed his mouth, refusing to take any breaths to avoid his soul being taken.

His head pounded and his cells disintegrated from the lack of oxygen. But he couldn't breathe! He would lose his soul if he let his mouth open wide enough for the monster to grab it. The monster lurked in the shadows, circling him and laughing at him. It waited to pounce. Waited to snare the soul Peter struggle to keep within him.

Red and black splotches danced in front of him. A crawling dread stroke his spine, leaving a cold touch on each vertebrae. Anxiety crept along the borders of his senses, into the miasma of hopelessness. It filled him with phantasms of overwrought nerves and imageries of madness. Truth and falsehoods kept him questioning and doubting.

It wound him up and left him sputtering incoherent mumbles. He whined for comfort. Greedy for his need to be in his aunt's arms. He worried for her. His thoughts burned of Aunt May. Trapped to a wall, waiting to be picked off by Mr. Stark's men. His army. And he wasn't there to protect her. Like he wasn't there to protect Uncle Ben.

He wanted out. He wanted out! His aunt needed him. She was in danger. Possibly even hurt. He glued her to the wall. Left her vulnerable. All in the name of her safety. And Peter… he couldn't do anything.

He was trapped in this tabernacle of emptiness.

Peter's head fell back. All illusions of surviving were gone.

He wished to be saved. He wanted a rescuing hand to tow him out and back to life.

Mr. Parker.

A voice! It drained right into his ear and swamped his brain. Its words reverberated around him, arousing him to pay attention.

Peter shut his eyes (or opened? He wasn't quite sure.). He heard nothing. It was only false whispers that floated around him. The monster waiting for him to respond. To open himself so that he could claw out his soul.

Mr. Parker?

The voice returned. Clearer. Less God-like.

Peter shook his head. It felt forever. Like his head was moving through syrup. Sticking and thick. It wasn't real. It wasn't true. It was a ploy. There was no one there. Only space. Emptiness. Darkness.

"Mr. Parker?"

The voice shocked Peter awake. The grey void was gone, replaced with state-of-the-art machinery and computer systems. Further beyond was a metallic circle with lights dancing along its metal edge. Inside the ring, it appeared to be some kind liquid silk, with starlight patterns that rippled among the waves. Above that was a display reading: GATEWAY / NONACTIVE.

What did that mean?

"Mr. Parker? Can you hear me?"

Peter snapped his attention away from the mystery gateway and straight forward to see a man dressed in a lab coat looking at him. Peter freaked and jerked in response, but was restrained with all the bindings needed to keep a hold on him.

"Oh! Oh… no, no, you're okay, Mr. Parker," the man tried to reassure him. "Hey—hey, it's okay…"

The man's hand reached to hold his shoulders. The gesture made Peter cringe, rejecting and recoiling away from the man. Or attempted to move away. His heart raced for dear life as he stared up at the man with wide, terrified eyes. Oh god! Was he about to be experimented?

"I'm not going to hurt you," the scientist swore. "I only want to do a quick check-up..."

The scientist reached for him again and Peter involuntarily flinched again, recoiling as much as he could from the man's grasp.

The man dropped his hand. "Okay... you don't want to be touched. That's fine," he said, pulling up a stool to sit on. "I can work around that. So, um, Mr. Parker—or is it okay to call you Peter?"

Peter stared blankly at the man. No words or emotions or even thoughts came to him. Too distracted by the blinding of the lights. The darkening shadows in the corners. The heat of the nearby lamp. The smell of a ham sandwich to mayo and onions and arugula. The whines of overworked machines, blaring loud in his ears. There was no respite. It flooded him, the masses blinding, deafening and burning him in one go.

The man spoke to him again. At least, Peter thought he did. He barely registered the voice. It fluctuated with the turbulent wind and the scattered thoughts. It overwhelmed him. Pulsed through his whole body, wrangled him in a knotted mess.

And the air. Too loud! Too tight! Too hard to take a breath and too hard to speak. Release! Release! Release, damnit!

The man's took his shoulders, saying something. His image burned bright, then darkened. Then burned again. Peter couldn't understand and he felt incredibly pathetic. He was reduced to pitiable straits, unable to trust his senses or his mind. The two things he relied most for his own sanity.

Something covered his face. Or maybe he gave up. He fell back into oblivion, curling onto himself in hopes to protect the last that remained of himself. As it took him, Peter let his festering heart cry.

His reawakening was groggy. Eyelids heavy and breaths deep as he slowly came around. The bleariness and shadows ebbed into disappearance the more times he blinked, regaining his strength. His focus was on a ceiling too high for him to reach and his hears listened to the soft purrs of machines waiting for commands.

With effort, Peter rolled his head to the side. He was laying on a mat. Right on the floor. A shock blanket on top of him. Peter instinctively lifted his hands to shrug it off, only to remember he had no control of his limbs. But, to his grand surprise and happiness, his hand moved, fingers gripping the blanket.

The bindings were gone. Except for the heavy collar around his neck. The straitjacket was detached from him and he was only in these grey clothes. A number stamped on the sleeve: No. 081962.

No. 081962. That was him. His identity. His life.

"Oh, good," came that familiar voice. "You're awake."

A chair wheeled and steps took over before someone stood over Peter. Their long shadow hanging over Peter's head.

"Let me help you up."

A hand was stretched to him, encouraging to be taken. Not fully aware what or where he was, Peter took the hand and was lifted to his feet. The other hand rested behind Peter's back as Peter was shuffled to a nearby office chair. The man helped Peter sit before the hands retracted from him.

The scientist left Peter in the chair, going back to his workstation that had two monitors, both displaying unusual activity. Not unusual to the scientist as he barely glanced at it before he turned around, dragging his stool over to place it in front of Peter.

"How're you feeling?" the scientist asked. "You were in quite a panic an hour ago."

He still felt panicked and nauseous. And sluggish. "I'm... okay."

"Well, you're certainly not a blubbering mess like before."

Peter prickled at the comment. It irked him that he couldn't remember. There was an empty, blank space in his mind, which questioned and haunted him. What happened?

He must have shown his frustration because the scientist filled in the missing gaps. "You got a nasty case of sensory overload," he explained. "Can happen sometimes when one leaves the Negative Zone, but I'm afraid you got it the worst. Not surprising considering your already heightened senses. You were in there for a little less than twelve hours, but it was enough to make you ill."

Huh? "Negative Zone?" Peter's croakily inquired.

"The Hole or whatever people are calling it," the scientist waved in dismissal as unimportant. "I prefer Negative Zone, but that's only my preference."

Peter's whole body went rigid. He clutched the chair's armrests, looking wildly at the ground in search. Where was it? Was he already in it? What—How—

"Relax, Mr. Parker," the scientist said, his voice pleasant and soothing. It reminded Peter of a gentleman. Someone with a posh upbringing and emotions always in check. "You're not in it. I had you removed to do a quick check-up, if you may recall."

Again, Peter didn't. Beads of sweat bubbled along his hairline and he heard his heart drum in his ears. "W-Where am I then?" he asked, voice still shaking. "What's going on? W-Who are you?"

The man's eyebrows twitched up in disbelief. "Do you not know who I am?"

Peter had no idea who the man was. Not at first. He took in the man's full appearance: dark hair with some side-streaks of white; chiseled, sharp face; intelligent, curious eyes; and, a small mouth that always seemed to be in a permanent studious pout.

Then it clicked. Peter's mind jump-started and all the pieces came together. He knew exactly who the man was.

"You're... you're... Dr. Richards!"

The man smiled, a twinkle in his eye. "Yes, I'm Reed Richards," the scientist confirmed. "Please to meet your acquaintance, Mr. Parker."

He held out a hand and Peter, awe-inspired, shook one of his heroes' hands. Peter admired Dr. Richards' thesis on synthetic poylmers, giving a summary report to his sixth grade class. The man was the smartest person on Earth! Mr. Stark was brilliantly smart and a mechanic whiz, but Dr. Richards was the man of science. A legend. Practically mythical.

And he shook his hand! His hand! God—this was incredibly unbelievable.

Dr. Richards light-heartily chuckled at Peter's star-struck face. "I was told you were a fan," he said to Peter. "Recited whole passages from my theses. That's impressive, considering most adults have a hard time getting through the first paragraph of any of my writings." He studied Peter with that same intellectual twinkle in his eye. "You must be quite special."

He wasn't, Peter wanted to say. He wasn't special. Only a fool.

Dr. Richards prepped a blood pressure cuff. "Mr. Stark speaks highly of you," he continued, wrapping the cuff over Peter's triceps. "Says you're one of a kind, and he may have a point."

"I'm not," Peter exhaled, tired of the high expectations. "Mr. Stark—"

The name shocked something alive within him, reopening a wound. A pressure buried into the middle of his forehead, like someone pressed a button. His mind stayed cleared before an onslaught of memories engulfed his thoughts. Photograph-like flashes flipped before his eyes. Snapshots of his aunt. Of their burning apartment. Of Powers and Jack-O attacking. Of Mr. Stark. Or Mr. Stark's fury. Of lies. Of orders. Of screaming and begging.

Peter's breath hitched and his overwrought nerves fired up again, surging him right out of his seat.

Dr. Richards, however, jumped up as well, grabbing Peter on both sides and restraining his movements. "Whoa! Easy there, son! You're still recovering from your extraction."

"Let me go!" Peter snapped, trying to get passed Dr. Richards. To reach for the stairs and the doors and to his endangered aunt. "Get out of my way!"

But, Dr. Richards refused. "Settle down before you hurt yourself."

Peter didn't give a damn about his own safety! He needed to find his aunt. She was the one in danger. Mr. Stark threatened her. He was going after her. He was going to hurt her.

"Where is she? What did you do to her?" he demanded of the scientist. "If she's hurt, I swear to God—"

"I don't know who you are talking about."

"My aunt!" Peter roared, rage seeping into his words. "What did Mr. Stark do to her?" He scanned the room madly, searching every nook and cranny for a woman with radiant red hair. "Where is she!?"

Dr. Richards face remained blank and impassive. "I have no idea what you are talking about," he confessed. "I don't know anything about an aunt."

"You're lying!"

They all told lies. Peter's strength may not be up to par, but he was stronger enough to shake out of a human's grasp. He started to yank himself away, jerking away to force the man to let him go.

At that, his chest constricted. Not too hard that it was agonizing, but enough to garner notice. Furious at the restriction, Peter looked down and gave out a tiny squeak of surprise. The man's hands were no longer on Peter's arms. They stretched, over the arms, around his back, over his belly, and back into a curling compression to stop Peter's flailing movements.

Peter's eyes bulged as he gaped at the impossible. "H-H-How..."

"I'll tell you if you promise to be civil," Dr. Richards said, tilting his head down to make that pivotal eye contact. "Do you promise?"

Too much in a state of shock to argue, Peter begrudgingly nodded. Otherwise, he probably would remain a struggling fool in a python-like grip for a long time.

Slowly, Dr. Richards unwrapped his long arms from Peter's middle, but rather than the arms dangling all the way to the floor, it shrunk down, returning to normal. Peter stood where he was, feet rooted as his eyes flickered from Dr. Richards' hands to the man's face.

"Thank you," Dr. Richards said. "Please sit. You're still not up to your full health."

Peter didn't make move to the chair, but Dr. Richards stretched again, sliding the chair up until it hit behind Peter's knees and forced him to sit.

Dr. Richards fixed his white coat. "Now—I'm sure a science whiz like yourself has heard of the rumors in regards to an incident many years ago."

Peter recalled the rumblings about an incident at the famed Baxter Building. Reporters mentioned it for a couple of weeks before moving onto other worldly problems. They wrote stories of an incident that resulted in an experiment disaster. Something almost akin to the Hulk, but not that serious. Whispers among the scientific community claimed Dr. Richards' group were inhuman. Became something warped and odd. Rumors of a man that stretched every limb of his body. Of a man that transformed into a literal, flaming torch. Of a girl who shielded not only others, but herself with invisibility. And of a mountain, who was once a carefree man.

Obviously, Peter dismissed them. He and Ned treated them like ghost stories. Tales to tell kiddies to freak them out. While lab accidents do happen, Peter never read in the news of a stretchable man or an invisible girl or fire boy or a… thing. There were no stories of such creatures and Dr. Richards' made several appearances in the public, alongside his beautiful wife Susan. No signs of mutations at all.

Until now when Dr. Richards' hands became elastic, coiling around his body multiple times.

Peter rolled his eyes back up to Dr. Richards' face. "It's true then," he murmured. "You can really… you know… stretch."

Dr. Richards nodded. He took up his seat again, scooting it close enough that their knees almost touched. "It happened when a project of mine went sideways. It became unstable and before we were able to shut it down, a blast went off in the room," he said. "Myself and three of my friends, including my wife, were caught in the blast. Thankfully, none of us died, but we did come out… different."

"We quarantined ourselves. For the safety of others as we had no idea of what we were exposed to," Dr. Richards went on, stress lines forming across his forehead. "It was all for the best until we figured things out. Then the Accords happened—"

"And now you work for Mr. Stark," Peter finished, distrustful of the man.

"Alongside Anthony Stark. He's not my boss," Dr. Richards corrected like he wanted Peter to acknowledge he was still his own man. "After the Accords, he came to our headquarters with a plan. He—it's amazing, Peter. The plans! Had so many discussions right here in this room about the future. The future for not only this country, but the world and other meta-humans... it's inspiring!"

Peter didn't say a word. His brain shuttered for a moment, almost everything on pause while Peter caught up with everything Dr. Richards was saying to him. Plans? What plans? What future?

"W-What are you talking about?" Peter questioned. "Isn't the government in control of all this? The UN?"

"They're backing us, but Tony is leading the whole thing."

The world screeched to a halt. "What?"

Dr. Richards looked puzzled at Peter's bewildered state. "The Superhero community needs a face, Peter. A leader," he said. "Tony is the person in charge of the implementing the Accords. Surely you knew that!"

No, no he didn't. Add that to Mr. Stark's lies. Right now, that didn't matter. He needed to get Dr. Richards to listen to him, to believe him.

"Dr. Richards—please! You gotta listen to me," Peter urgently requested of the great scientist. "Mr. Stark is wrong! Okay? What he is doing is all wrong!"

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"You do realize I'm not an adult, right? He kidnapped me! He's holding me against my will!"

Dr. Richards averted his gaze, turning away from Peter to fiddle with something on a nearby desk. "I'm aware of your status," was all he said.

"Then you know this is all wrong! It's morally wrong!" Peter demanded. "He's going after my aunt! He threatened her—"

"I thought you were an orphan."

"I have an aunt!" Peter was tired of people dismissing his aunt as non-family. She was his family. Now and forever. "How can you support him? Mr. Stark's breaking so many laws! Don't you even—"

Dr. Richards swung back to him. "You don't understand, Peter. You're still… young! Innocent! You don't know how the world truly works yet," he said, frazzled, but his eyes were flashing with excitement. "What Tony is doing—it's going to benefit the world! People are going to be safe. No one will fear people like you and me."

"No one is afraid of me."

Dr. Richards went to a computer, typed something up and clicked a button. A screen flickered to life. A big picture of a news article from the Daily Bugle. A new article that publicly decried Spider-man as a menace.

Peter curled his fingers. "That's a tabloid! No one believes it!"

"You're a man of science, Peter. We both use logic when faced with problems," Dr. Richards said as he powered down the big screen. The newspaper article disappeared. "Unfortunately, most people do not. People are… ignorant. They take things at face value. It's why our government is the way it is at the moment. That's why we need better leaders to fix everything that's going wrong. That's why—"

"You sided with Mr. Stark?" scoffed Peter, his face sharpened in dangerous angles. "Because he told you things and you just believed him? Like that?"

"No, I thought it over. I did the math—"

"Not everything is math and science!"

Dr. Richards inhaled. His neck seemed to have gotten longer. "I know," he said, softly as if he was in a confessional box. "We're facing an apocalypse, Peter. If we don't regulate… if we don't take better control…" The man looked back to Peter, looked him right into his angry, hurt eyes. "… we lose.

"You're right. It's not about math or science. It's not even politics!" Dr. Richards' rambled on. "But it is logical to know that if we do nothing, then disaster will fall upon us. Tony's plan is the best way to prevent disaster."

Peter dropped his chin, slowly shaking his head as his heart crumbled into little pieces. It was gut-wrenching to see another one of his idols fall in front of his very eyes. Another disappointment to shatter all the great illusions Peter had for his role models.

Unlike Dr. Richards', Peter saw the true light. He was quickly enlightened and knew he needed to correct it. He unwound himself from the enthrallment Mr. Stark delicately wrapped around him over the past nine months. And he refused to let his other false hero do it again.

"You gotta let me go, Dr. Richards," Peter reiterated. "My aunt's in trouble. Mr. Stark is going to kill her."

"Tony won't kill your aunt."

"You don't know that!" Peter argued. "He already lied to my aunt about my disappearance. What do you think he would do next to keep her silent?"

"Peter, you don't understand—"

"I understand a lot more than anyone gives me credit," Peter sharply retorted. "I have to save my aunt. She needs me!"

"I'm sure your aunt is fine. Tony probably just… wanted to talk to her about the situation," Dr. Richards claimed in a dismissing wave, "but if it makes you feel better, I'll talk to Tony—"

"No! He'll just lie to you!" Peter grew more frustrated by the man's apathy. No wonder his aunt insisted on him joining in on social activities. She knew the importance of developing empathy for his science-minded brain. "You gotta let me go, okay? Let me go. Let me save my aunt and get out of here."

"I can't do that."

"Yes you can!"

"Peter…Peter…Peter!" Dr. Richards shouted a little over Peter's angry bursts. "I know all of this is confusing, but you are an important piece of the puzzle. You are pivotal! I know that now. You can't walk away from it."

Peter ground his teeth. "Watch me."

He sprinted, weaving and dodging Dr. Richards' elastic limbs that spiked in almost every direction. He scuttled along the walls as Dr. Richards' arms zoomed up next to him in attempt to stop him. Peter heard the man's pleas, but he ignored them. His eyes were on the door.

Peter never reached the door. He was close. He jumped from the wall, hand reaching for the handle when he felt the same coiling around his rib-cage. Yanked back, Peter watched his hand slip away from the door and back to where he started. His spidey-sense was booming again and his insides twisted as a buzzing sound cackled to life.

The portal. It was active.

Peter struggled madly in Dr. Richards' elongated arms. "Please! Please!" he cried. "No! Don't—don't send me back there! I can't… please! Please!"

Dr. Richards looked sympathetic, but his fingers stretched long as it reached to Peter's neck. It clicked something and Peter's muscles went slack. The collar. He turned it back on. Peter lost all of his super-strength and became limp in the man's coiled grasp.

At his mercy, brought Peter was brought back to the upright stretcher. "It'll be okay, Peter," Dr. Richards said in soothing tone as if that would comfort Peter enough to believe him. "You won't stay inside for long."

Tears flew from Peter's eyes. "No! No—you don't understand! He's going to kill her! He's going to hurt her," he wept. "Please, Dr. Richards, please… I have to save her! Protect her! She's all I have left."

Dr. Richards fastened Peter's hands in the straitjacket. "Tony's not a murderer."

"He's no saint either."

A soft, but sad sigh fell from Dr. Richards' lips. "In this day of age, no one is. We do what we must," was all he chose to say before he secured Peter in his bindings. "I promise I'll check on your aunt. Make sure she's fine and well-cared for. And if Tony is truly threatening her (which I severely doubt), I will stand in front of her. I'll protect her. You have my promise."

With that, Dr. Richards turned away from Peter to return to his console. He stepped over the spaghetti-tangled of cords that lay on the floor. He flipped a few switches and sever boxes and routers alight and moaned awake. Then, the man took a seat in front of a hexagonal table with a large computer monitor in the center and, papers, laptops and tablets strewn across the surface.

The portal hummed to life. A silky ripple of stars and an unearthly nebula blazed in appearance. His stretcher moved on its own, sliding right in front of the active portal. And Peter's senses screamed to life, begging and pounding in tantrum.

"No… no… no… no…"

"Big breath, Peter," Dr. Richards advised right as he pressed a key at his console.

The stretcher jolted and Peter felt himself be swallowed whole by the inky black wave, consumed by the nebula and burned with the stars.

Breathe.

Just once.

Breathe.

Peter attempted to control his desperate lungs. Measured breaths. Calming exercises. It helped a little as his reality continued to be distorted. His vision was in constant shifts, flowing and changing. It threw him into chaos, the world spinning and nothing to stop it. It spun and spun and spun, spiraling Peter into a deep, desolate black hole of never-ending torment.

Shadows scurried the corners of his eyes, laughing and snickering at him. He would see someone, lurking right out of the light, blending in the dark. But every time Peter tried to focus, they disappeared. Nothing but the bare wall, before it grew into a maze of reflective walls like that funhouse he got lost in as a kid.

Another laughter. Right next to his ear.

Peter turned. No one was there. Nothing.

A light flashed in the next corner. He looked. Only darkness.

Only the monster that circled him, always out of sight, out of reach. But there. Watching. Waiting. Reminding Peter that any wrong move would result in ripping of his soul in half. His mind to go numb and crazy. To have his body as nothing but blood, skin and bones.

The monster's ice-cold breath breezed against the back of Peter's neck, sending a chill straight to his heart. Tts cold fingers traced his spine, causing Peter to lurch to run away. But he couldn't. The binds restricted him, confined him, kept him trapped and begging in mercy.

Peter squeezed his eyes shut again. It's not real. It's not real. It's not real.

"Please… please… I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," Peter cried, choking over his labored, sobbed breaths. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please—please, let me out. Please! I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please Mr. Stark… please… I'm sorry."

What are you doing?

Peter's eyes popped open at the sound. A voice! He looked to the opposite side, and discovered a young child half-hidden from Peter's eyes by the shadowy cloak of the wall.

"W-W-What?" Peter managed to gasp out before he sealed his lips again. The monster stayed behind him. Did the boy know that? Did he know this place was not safe?

The boy stared, unimpressed. It won't work.

The voice. It was in his head. How was the child speaking in his head? Was it telepathic? Was he kidnapped too?

"Y-You… got—got to get… out," Peter coughed. "Get help."

The boy didn't move. I'm right where I need to be.

Peter shook his head. "No—find… find… help."

He inadvertently blinked, his vision a swirl of dark colors until it refocused. The boy moved. He no longer remained hidden in partial shadows, but stood directly under Peter. Mop of messy brown curls, little dimple chin and inquisitive eyes right back at up. Eyes Peter saw every day of his life.

"Y-You?" Peter gasped. "Me?"

Little Peter said nothing. He only stared right up at Peter, nose scrunched in disappointment. You're no hero.

Peter's heart drummed, shooting strong pulses everywhere through him in an agonizing current. "I-I..."

Heroes win. You don't win.

No, he supposed he didn't. He lost so much in his life. And he only seemed to keep losing. First his parents. Then his uncle. His aunt. And now, his own mind.

Tears slid down Peter's cheeks as he looked at his younger self. He wanted to call him a liar. That he was wrong, but what evidence did have to show? He was strapped, collared and drained of his powers. He left his aunt vulnerable. He trusted the wrong people. He failed.

The Parker Luck flowed strong in his veins. It had become his life force.

"Go…away," Peter begged to Little Peter. He didn't need his younger self to see him. To see what he had become. To watch him wilt and rot.

The boy didn't move. It's inevitable.

Peter mumbled, the words dripping of his lips. "What is?"

Little Peter vanished. Gone. Like he was never there. Back to being alone with twisting architecture that loomed dangerously over him. Alone with only the small voice in the back of his head, telling him he was losing it. Alone with the monster that crept around him, hiding and teasing, ready to pounce and claw its way into Peter's soul.

Peter squeezed into himself as best as he could. He wanted his aunt. He wanted his uncle. He even wanted the parents he had no memory of. He wanted his family more than anything. Return to being that little boy where he could run into his family's arms with assurance, love and comfort. Soothing voices of pride and smiles.

All he got now was a cold shift of air, drafting over him. It whipped around him, swirling and surrounding as a ring of red-orange sparks floated in midair. Like a thin ring of fire, seen in the circuses he saw as a boy. Another hallucination. Another illusion. Another lie.

Peter blinked, his eyelids so heavy now. A shadow appeared in the middle, growing bigger and longer as it moved toward him. Its head tilted or… maybe it was Peter whose head lugged to the side? He slowly shook his head. Another hallucination. Another illusion. Another lie.

The figure formed into a shape. The shadows sliding off in a smooth cascading motion, like a cape. Splotches of color filtered into the grey and dreary room. Red whipped behind the figure, waving attention like a man drawing a bull's attention. Noise echoed around him and within him. Step. Step. Step.

Peter squeezed his eyes shut. Another hallucination. Another illusion. Another lie.

He held his breath and waited. The noise pierced his eardrums. Heat ripped into him. The cold sunk back. The world encased in ice burned. It hurt! It hurt! It hurt!

His younger self was right. It was all inevitable. Why did he bother to try? He wouldn't win. Never did.

Peter let go, and falling forward, letting himself be eaten by the ring of fire and into the mercy of the apparition.